


Pit Stop

by siluria



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-05
Updated: 2011-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-26 23:05:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/288885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siluria/pseuds/siluria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim's a police officer, Bones is a one-man band TV news reporter. After a murder on Christmas Eve, they both take a few minutes to duck into a gas station and grab a cup of coffee. It's a rough job, but they took the Christmas Eve shift so others could be with their families. And a crappy bit of plastic mistletoe could spark something, even under the eyes of a surly counter clerk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pit Stop

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2011 space_wrapped challenge.
> 
> Thank you to Kayim for the read through xxx

  
_Christmas is the time to let your heart do the thinking - Patricia Clafford_   


Jim shuffled backwards a few steps, a muttered apology tripping off his tongue to the tech who pushed past before remembering that this was his crime scene. His breath fogged when he huffed, and he shoved his gloved hands into his coat pockets to ward off the late night chill.

The rain spattered against the tarpaulin above his head, the sound punctuated by the click of the CSI team’s cameras, the static from radios and the trilling of a myriad of ringtones. Occasionally the sounds within the tent would lessen enough for him to hear the bustle of the camera crews that had amassed outside of the cordon, undeterred by either the weather or the social importance of the day. He knew he wasn’t the only one working Christmas Eve, but he hadn’t thought it would be too much to hope for a quiet night.

Gang conflicts didn’t care what the rest of the world was doing, and Jim suspected that the drive-by had been timed especially for tonight to have the biggest impact. At least his suspect list was pretty solid, and he had a good idea which of the gang members was responsible based on the bullet casings at the scene.

“How much longer?” he asked the nearest tech.

The man glanced at his watch before casting a weary eye around the cramped tent. The tight space encompassed the three bodies and associated forensics they’d have to catalogue and preserve before the rain washed any more of it away. “Couple of hours at least before you can start prodding at things. The ME still needs to sign off the paperwork before we can start on the bodies.”

Jim scratched at his temple as his headache throbbed in time with the flicker and pulse of the hazy red and blue lights cast from the squad cars parked outside. Not even the powerful floodlights in the tent could drown them out. He glanced out through the gap in the tent and decided skipping out for a break was a far better idea than shuffling his feet in the damp tent.

“Call me if you get anything of note, otherwise I’ll be back before you leave.”

The tech waved a distracted hand, not looking up from the sketchpad he was busily scrawling in, and Jim shook his head as he walked back outside. He tugged his collar up as the rain hit him, and he paused long enough to take a look at the gathered vultures. The press were an evil he could do without, but he never could stop himself from scanning the faces on the other side of the cordon looking for the one reporter he wouldn’t mind spending some time with. There was something about McCoy and his personal approach to life’s disasters that drew Jim in. It didn’t hurt that the reporter was easy on the eye too, even if Jim had yet to manage to have a conversation with him that didn’t involve a camera recording his every word.

He couldn’t help feeling disappointed when the crowd didn’t give him what he wanted, but he shrugged it off and headed to his car. He met a lot of people in his line of work, most of them walking the wrong side of the line. Those that he could see himself in a relationship with worked with the same commitment he did in the same disciplines. Or they were the victims he was trying to help, and not even he would take advantage of that no matter what the precinct rumor-mill said.

Leonard McCoy though, Jim could see himself with. See it clearly, his mind supplying the images in great detail, sometimes at inappropriate moments when things got quiet between the crime scene and the arrest, or when he got home to a lonely apartment. In those times it was McCoy’s face, his hands, his voice, that Jim imagined.

He dropped himself into the seat of his sedan with a grateful sigh. It wasn’t cold by Iowa standards, but Jim had softened over the years he’d spent in San Francisco and the wind and rain shrouding the city combined to leave him chilled to the bone. He held his gloved hands in front of the vents as the air started to blow warm, his thoughts slipping to what he was going to do tomorrow with an empty apartment and a microwave meal for one. He guessed he’d be staring at his cell willing it to ring, not that he would wish the need for his services on anyone.

He pulled away from the crime scene, feeling his headache recede as the lights in his rear-view disappeared. The city was still bright though, not even the rain and encroaching fog could dull the Christmas decorations hanging from streetlights or the soft glow or twinkle of lights from apartment windows. The radio was turned low, but Jim could hear the cheerful sounds of carols and seasonal tunes as he drove along. He wouldn’t admit it to the man himself, but he found himself missing the voice of his overly chatty partner, it would have been something to drown out the festive cheer that everyone else had in abundance and that he was struggling to find this year. He startled out of his thoughts as the dash beeped at him, the warning sound accompanied by the low gas light gave him a destination rather than aimlessly driving the city just to get a break.

The inside of the gas station was decked out in tired old garlands, faded in the windows from too much sun. Tinsel was wrapped around the cash register and tacked up on the edge of the counter in lopsided and unevenly spaced loops. The radio station that played in the background had found another obscure Christmas song to play from some artist that kicked out an annoying tune only to disappear into obscurity and rake in the profits once a year. Jim shook his head at the thought and couldn’t help but wonder just how jaded the job was making him.

He plucked a candy bar from the display in front of the counter and handed over his card to the clerk. The guy looked as happy to be there as Jim did considering the grunt he got in greeting. The man’s Christmas-themed name badge read something like _Steve_ or _Stewart_ , but the last few letters were smeared and Jim wasn’t inclined to scrutinize them, not when the blinking red lights that surrounded the badge were threatening to give him another headache.

He signed his name on the slip, pausing to look up when the front door chimed, finding himself staring at the subject of the fantasies that were going to get him through the next five hours of his shift.

“You following me?” Jim asked, the smile taking any accusation out of the words.

McCoy shrugged lopsidedly as he let go of the door and started to unwind the rich navy blue scarf from around his neck. “Wouldn’t be much of a reporter if I didn’t follow the story.”

Jim’s smile turned rueful, and he shook his head. It was just his luck that the really hot guy followed him for a story rather than because he liked the view. “Hell, it’s Christmas, don’t you have some place to be?”

“About the same options as you have, I imagine.” McCoy’s voice was lower, his voice turned even rougher than usual by the cold weather, and Jim failed to hide his shiver. Not all of it from the last remnants of the temperature outside. “Besides, needed gas,” McCoy added with a small smile.

Jim took his card back from the teller and stepped to one side, waiting until McCoy had paid for the gas he’d pumped. When McCoy turned round he jumped when he found Jim still hovering. “Can I get you a coffee?” Jim asked, hoping the eagerness for a positive response wasn’t too obvious.

McCoy glanced over Jim’s shoulder eyeing the limited options, before shrugging. “Sure, why not.”

Jim smiled brightly and turned towards the machine. He pulled two cups from the stack starting to fill his before he turned to look at McCoy.

“Black’s fine,” he rumbled in answer to the unspoken question.

Jim handed over his full cup, before starting on the next one. When it was full he wrapped his hands around the cup, the heat through the cheap cardboard warming his hands, and he sighed in relief. McCoy was still stood waiting when Jim inclined his head in the direction of the teller. The clerk was no more interested in this sale than he had been with the last, and Jim found himself wishing a far too joyous Merry Christmas at the man anyway, suddenly finding some festive cheer with the prospect of finally getting to talk freely to the object of his daydreams without a camera to film his blushes.

When he turned back to McCoy he found the man settled in one of the red plastic seats. He’d taken off the heavy woolen coat, now draped over the back of the seat next to him a puddle of water slowly forming from the drips of rainwater. Jim took a moment to admire the wide stretch of the man’s shoulders. He wondered if McCoy had been around a few too many cops considering he left the seat that had the view of the front door for Jim. He shook himself out of his thoughts and walked over, placing the coffee down before he peeled off his gloves and slipped into the cold plastic seat.

“Thanks for the coffee,” McCoy muttered before he took a sip of his drink. Jim could see the heavy steam rising from the hot liquid and wondered briefly if McCoy even felt the temperature when he swallowed without a grimace.

“No problem.” Jim grabbed a handful of half-and-half cups and poured them in his drink, tearing the tops off three sugar packets he tipped those in too, spinning the plastic stirrer in the liquid until he had some hope that at least some of the sugar wouldn’t be stuck to the bottom of the cup or clinging to those last few mouthfuls. When he finally raised his head, he found McCoy looking at him. Jim met his gaze until he found himself on the brink of fidgeting. “What?”

McCoy smiled slightly and shook his head, leaning back against the seat. “I didn’t think cops were allowed to talk to the press without a crib sheet. Or are you just going to sit there and not say anything?”

Jim shrugged. “I don’t often play by the book, but I figure if German and Allied soldiers can call a ceasefire on the battlefield at Christmas, I can do the same. Not that we’re fighting over anything, I suppose, in the end we both want the same thing.”

McCoy waved his hand before wrapping it around his coffee cup. Jim took that as silent agreement. “You pull the short straw with the Christmas Eve shift, then?” McCoy asked.

Jim shook his head. “Volunteered. It’s not like I have kids or anyone at home to spend it with. Only plans I had involved the local bar. You?”

“Pretty much the same,” McCoy answered, before sipping at his coffee again. “Family’s all back home in Georgia and although the temperature’s a hell of a lot more agreeable, the atmosphere wouldn’t be as warm.”

Jim thought about the offer he’d had from Sam to stay with him and the family in New York, but he couldn’t fit the trip around his shifts all that well, and if he was honest with himself, he hadn’t wanted to try. He barely spoke to Sam throughout the rest of the year and he could do without feeling like he was the pity case, invited along because they felt sorry for him. He’d been alone too long for a single Christmas invite to fix the years of distance between them. He wiped off a drip of water from the bridge of his nose that had rolled down from his drenched hair.

“How’s the new cameraman working out?” Jim asked, determined to divert the conversation elsewhere before it turned into a one-upmanship of empty apartments and meals-for-one.

“Scotty?” McCoy’s paused, whether surprised Jim had taken the time to notice or fuddled by the conversation change, Jim couldn’t be sure. “Man’s a genius in finding the best angles, and he can make my tired equipment work no matter what the Bay area weather throws up.”

Jim had already read up about McCoy’s new cameraman. He’d been surprised at first that McCoy had brought someone else onboard, when Jim had seen him in the past he’d always been alone. His reports never lacked anything from running solo, if anything McCoy’s features blew the others out of the running. Jim suspected it had something to do with the passion in McCoy’s delivery, or the honesty in his pieces, or hell, just because the guy was hot and the camera loved him. Since Jim had seen McCoy at his first crime scene he’d always kept an eye out for him, always switched on his TV set after his shifts looking for those reports. It seemed like the days of local news were behind McCoy though now. Jim knew he’d been approached by CNN, and with a cameraman on his books Jim doubted it would be long before someone tried to drag McCoy away from the locals and further afield.

Montgomery Scott could have been one of the world’s leading wildlife cameramen, if it hadn’t been for that little mix-up with National Geographic’s favorite presenter. The rumor mill said that being pushed into the background to appease Archer had left Scott feeling a little alienated and he’d gone off the radar for a while, only to turn up at McCoy’s side.

“How’d you meet?”

McCoy chuckled, the sound deep and rich, infectious, and Jim couldn’t help but smile in response. “Now that is one hell of a story I might tell you one day. For now let’s just say there was a hell of a lot of liquor involved and I’m not too clear on the finer details of the deal we struck. But as Scotty isn’t either, we’re winging it. Seems to be working out just fine as it is.”

“He’s not working tonight then?”

McCoy shook his head. “Sent him home to Scotland. Seems he’s not been anywhere near there since the shit storm at Geographic and we figured he could do with touching base and letting them know he was getting back out there again. Not that working with a one-man outfit that chases small-time stories is much of a starting point.”

Jim shook his head. “Last I heard you’d been offered an exclusive contract with CNN to provide them with most of their San Francisco reports despite their regional bureau. That doesn’t seem like small-time to me.”

McCoy was silent as he stared at him and it was making Jim feel uncomfortable. “Where’d you hear that?” he asked quietly.

Jim shrugged and tried not to show his momentary panic. The last thing he needed was to be so transparent and scare McCoy off, not when he’d finally gotten to spend the time he wanted with the man. He breathed in a deep breath. “You’re at my crime scenes most of the time, I just like to know who’s got a camera pointing in my direction. Some reporters you have to be specific with so they can’t twist your words into something they’re not. I like to know what I’m getting into before I open my mouth, keeps my Lieutenant from having a heart attack.”

McCoy looked like he was going to say something in response, but whatever it had been was dropped when he swallowed down more coffee.

“Your editorials and exposés are good,” Jim said in the resulting silence. He shifted in his seat under the sudden scrutiny he got when McCoy turned his gaze back at him. “I tend to avoid the news, seeing as though I get it through locker room talk or from first-hand experience. I can’t stand the way things are twisted and assumptions are made that make our investigations so much harder most of the time. You’re different. You tell it how it is, don’t sugar-coat the half-truths and make people listen to your opinions. It makes for a refreshing change.”

“Thanks,” McCoy muttered. He ducked his head, but not before Jim could see a faint color rise on McCoy’s cheeks. “I always figured that if something’s worth saying you better get all the facts right before opening your mouth. TV’s a powerful tool, and people will believe pretty much anything you tell them.”

Jim sipped at his rapidly cooling coffee. “Like I said; refreshing.”

McCoy cleared his throat. “You seemed to make detective pretty quick. Doesn’t seem two minutes since you were wrapping police tape round lamp posts and standing out in the rain for hours on scene guard.”

“What can I say? I’m a quick learner,” Jim said, letting the grin show.

“I think you’re a damn sight smarter than you let people see. Your solve-rates are way above average for the Bay area, and I’ve seen you get a jury to eat up everything you say even on the flimsiest of evidence. Only a damn fool would leave you in blues.”

Jim stilled as he listened to McCoy’s words. The only other person to see beyond the care-free attitude had been Lieutenant Pike, and that had got him a detective’s badge before he should have been eligible to even apply for the training. The long hours he spent pouring over evidence and lab results, or trawling through the computer systems hadn’t even been noticed by the ‘detectives’ in his unit if the envious jibes about his good luck were anything to go on.

“You checking up on me now?” he finally asked, voice low. He wasn’t sure whether he should be wary or encouraged.

McCoy sipped at his coffee. “Like you said, I want to know who I’m dealing with, and I like to tell it how it is. I’ve been running interviews with you for a while now, kid, not to mention the other idiots in the SFPD. I know when I’m being fed a load of bullshit, you just have to learn to read around that for what’s not being said and poke until you trip someone up enough to get what you need. You’re not so easy to poke at.”

“I could be,” Jim said, the wiggle of his eyebrows adding enough innuendo that he hoped would divert the conversation away from him. He wasn’t comfortable with someone having that kind of understanding of him, not when they barely knew him. Deflection was something he excelled at, flirting a specialty.

McCoy laughed, before pushing his hair off his face. Jim ducked his head to hide his smile when the wet strands stayed stuck up, and breathed out in relief when McCoy didn’t react badly to his flirting. Jim didn’t care who he liked, but he was all too aware that some did and would ignore the badge on his belt and make his life hell. But Jim also went after what he wanted, _who_ he wanted, and he hadn’t wanted this badly for a long time. He was beginning to think that McCoy would be willing to take this some place without a cordon separating their two worlds. And if that happened McCoy needed a new name, because Jim was not calling anyone he was getting intimate with by their surname, and ‘Leonard’ really did not match the hotness that was the man himself.

“Did you take the offer at CNN?” Jim asked quietly. He wasn’t sure he had the right to ask the questions, especially not when McCoy had gone silent when he’d brought it up before. It was just that Jim wasn’t quite ready for McCoy to not be there at his crime scenes, didn’t want to lose that little bit of happiness he got from seeing him there.

McCoy swallowed more coffee before placing the cup carefully back on the table. “Why the interest?”

Jim shrugged and toyed with the rim of his cup. “I guess things won’t be the same if you’re going to be whisked off on whatever quest for a story they assign you with.”

McCoy was silent for so long that Jim was about to apologize, but then the other man leaned forward in his seat and rested his arms on the table. “I’ve done my time travelling with a camera,” he said quietly. “I spent so much time running after other people’s troubles, other _countries’_ troubles that I missed noticing my own back home. No matter what figure was on the bottom line of their contract it wasn’t going to be enough to get me back on the road again. We agreed that I’ll contribute to their local requirements on a freelance basis, but I’ll do it on my terms. The last thing I want is to be leashed or censored by a big news corporation. I need to tell the full story, and that’s exactly what I’m trying to achieve with my journalism.”

Jim smiled, partly in relief, but mostly because it meant McCoy would be sticking around. He didn’t voice this though, grinning instead. “So you basically told CNN how it was going to be? Wow, I’m impressed. Free-speech clearly means a lot to you, or was it the threat of having a makeup artist following you around and powdering your nose or fixing your hair?”

Jim grinned wider when McCoy unconsciously scrubbed his hand through his hair again, this time though he tried to straighten the now curling locks, all to no avail. McCoy sighed and picked his coffee up again, but Jim was happy to note that the tension that had risen when Jim asked his question was no longer sitting in McCoy’s frame.

Jim watched McCoy swirl the dregs of his coffee in the bottom of his cup, sensing his unexpected meeting was coming to an end. “You’re not going to ask me about the case?” Jim finally asked, his curiosity getting the better of him in the protracted silence.

McCoy swallowed his last mouthful of coffee and placed the empty cup back on the table. “Wasn’t planning on it. I was on a break, you were on a break, didn’t seem right somehow. Besides, you wouldn’t tell me anything anyway so I thought I’d save my breath.”

Jim snorted. “Yeah, you’d probably be right,” he admitted, reluctantly standing up from the table. He downed the last of his own coffee, grimacing at the sweetness of the last mouthful, and tossed the cup in the nearby trashcan. He picked up his gloves and shoved them in the pocket of his coat. “I best get back.”

McCoy stood up too and slipped the heavy coat back on. Jim noticed him shiver slightly, no doubt the wet coat was cold against warmed skin. Jim waited as McCoy looped the navy scarf back around his neck. “Then I best get back too, what with you being the source of my story an’ all.”

McCoy’s soft smile made Jim’s gut clench and he grinned in return. He stuck his hand in his pocket to fish out his keys, his fingers brushing against the tacky plastic mistletoe that his ass-pinching landlady had tried to ensnare him with earlier. A stupid thought ran through his head, that if he pulled it out and said the right words he could maybe get something good out of his crappy shift and seasonal loneliness, a memory he could keep with him to fuel those fantasies. That moment passed before Jim could decide whether to act, and instead all he could do was follow McCoy’s lead as he headed outside, giving a broad smile to the still disinterested teller.

He let the door go and tried to ignore the chill. The fog had settled in thicker now, and beyond the orange lights of the gas station there was nothing but murky gray. The solid rain of before had dissipated to a fine drizzle that would no doubt soak him to the bone just as effectively as the rain had. The CSI tent was not going to be a party, and he could already smell the dampness that would be mixed with the tang of spilled blood once he got back. McCoy had stopped to one side of the door and Jim could hear the muttered complaints that he made under his breath, mostly about how southern bones weren’t made to endure cold and drizzle.

Jim shook his head before he paused… _bones_ … He grinned as he pulled his own collar up as he walked to his car. McCoy’s, _Bones’_ footsteps and the fading lyrics from a rather more risqué version of Frosty the Snowman were the only sounds.

“Jim?”

He paused with his hand on his car door handle, and turned back to a suddenly uncomfortable looking reporter. “Yeah?”

“I have enough fixings for two if you didn’t want to spend what’s left of Christmas by yourself. I mean, I’m not sure what the rules are for cops socializing with reporters, but…”

“I’m not one for rules,” Jim said quickly, before Bones could change his mind. “I’d love to.”

Bones smiled and nodded. “Do I need to tell you where to find me?”

Jim shook his head sheepishly, “Not necessary.”

Bones snorted and shook his head. “Figures.” He dug a hand in his pocket and pulled out a small notebook and a pen before scribbling something down. He tore the page out and handed it to Jim. “My number; and I really don’t want to know if you have that already too, so humor me. Call me if you get pulled into work, I’ll put up a plate for you anyway.”

Jim took the piece of paper, the ruled lines towards the edges of the page were slightly blurred by the rain. He folded the paper up carefully and slipped it into the pocket of his pants. His fingers brushed against that damn mistletoe again. Hope and maybe a little over-confidence made him pluck it out of his pocket, maybe a little wishful thinking and a need to know where he stood, where this might go. He could throw it off as a joke, he’d had enough experience with what the city-dwellers got up to during the silly season that he reckoned he could get away with it. Maybe he could come away from this interlude with Bones as a friend… maybe something more if his luck held out.

Bones eyed the gaudy green plastic with frown, before Jim caught his gaze. “My landlady has rather grabby hands. Don’t tell my Lieutenant but I stole it, although it was in the name of self-preservation.”

“Okaaay,” Bones drawled, his tone clearly asking what that had to do with him.

Jim looked back at the mistletoe and took a deep breath before slowly raising his hand above his head. He could be making the biggest mistake of his life here, but hope was a powerful thing, and hell, they said hopes were answered with Christmas miracles didn’t they? “It’s a good tradition,” he said softly when he raised his eyes to Bones’.

Bones stayed still, silent. He wasn’t laughing at Jim, seemingly picking up on how serious he was just now, but then he wasn’t protesting, nor surging forward to meet him the way Jim might have hoped. Jim’s hand trembled and he had a joke all ready to laugh it off, if he could make that humor not sound so choked. Before he could lower his hand, Bones reached out, his chilled fingers wrapping round Jim’s own.

“Okay,” Bones repeated, this time the tone was accepting.

Jim held his breath, unable to look away from Bones’ bright eyes until the other man got close enough that Jim’s focus wavered. Bones paused with his lips so close, but not close enough and Jim’s eyes slid shut as he leaned forward. Their lips touched lightly, soft, slow movement against each other, their lips still warmed from the coffee.

He felt Bones’ fingers twitch and then clench against his briefly before the other man pulled back again, just far enough that Jim could still feel his warmth. Jim breathed out the air he’d kept locked in his lungs, a rush of relief not just from relieving the burn in his chest, but that he hadn’t screwed this up. The kiss was a tease of what was to come, leaving Jim wanting so much more that he didn’t think he could wait for, wanting more _now_. Duty came first though tonight, tomorrow he could push it to the background.

He leaned forward again. “Merry Christmas, Bones,” Jim whispered against those plush lips. He held himself close enough so that he could feel Bones’ lips twitch in reaction to the new nickname, and he felt rather than heard the soft snort.

“Merry Christmas, Jim.”

Jim smiled brightly and stole another quick kiss before he reluctantly pulled back. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Bones shook his head. “You’ll see me hovering outside your cordon in the rain for the next few hours, you idiot. You better make it worth it.” Bones’ tone was teasing, but there was something there that meant he was serious.

“Do you mean with an interview, or would you prefer something more personal?”

Jim knew the moment Bones understood the question as his eyebrows rose in a way Jim shouldn’t find so damn endearing, the hint of color though, that he didn’t mind admitting he loved. Bones just shook his head and with a wave of dismissal, headed for his truck.

Jim waited until the rear lights of Bones’ truck were enveloped by the fog before he turned the key in his ignition and cranked up the air-con waiting for the heat to filter through. He glanced back at the store through his window as he reversed out of the parking space, finding the counter clerk staring back out at him. Jim grinned and waved, the man jerking back away from the window as though shot. Jim chuckled to himself, and suddenly those garlands in the windows didn’t seem quite so faded. He slipped the car into drive and floored the accelerator, turning up the volume on the cheesy Christmas ballad that was playing. He had somewhere else to be tomorrow now, and he’d be damned if he let some low-life murderer spoil it for him.


End file.
